


Almost Home

by AggressiveWhenStartled



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: But not the rapey kind gross, Dark, Ghosts, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, More like murder and lying, Suicide, ghost story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-16 18:33:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AggressiveWhenStartled/pseuds/AggressiveWhenStartled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock always missed something, but it was inexcusable to think John would not be John just because he was dead, even if he'd been dead for a full year.</p><p>::<i>More than a bit not good, Sherlock. You brought back my head? My head. You’ve put MY HEAD into the refrigerator. Why the refrigerator? You’re a bit late to hold off decomposition. I’ve got mold on me.</i>::</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wrabbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrabbit/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Ghost Story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/118503) by [wrabbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrabbit/pseuds/wrabbit). 



> Unbeta'd and unbritpicked. Anyone want to volunteer?

_Almost home. Almost home. Almost home._

There was a satisfying click as Sherlock flicked up on the lock picks before tucking them away. Unlike the past three years (especially the last two, most especially the last one), everything in the past few weeks had been satisfying. Every step, click, clue brought him closer to the end, the refrain of

_Almost home. Almost home. Almost home._

repeating endlessly in the background of his thoughts. Even now, walking into what was almost certainly a trap, (no remaining men in the building, all easily dispatched ahead of time, all loose ends from three years of unbearably tedious violence, fraud and struggle nicely tied up in a bow in one house for him) he couldn’t silence it, losing that tiny bit of concentration to it. Dangerous, yes, but it reminded him to avoid what he couldn’t take back.

Murder, for example.

Well, the wrong kind of murder, anyway. The kind John wouldn’t condone or couldn’t be talked into ignoring. Not murder specifically. He’d certainly found it necessary to kill quite a few people while systematically dismantling the lies built up against him at the same time he took apart what should have been disjointed remains of a headless criminal organization. At first he thought it would give him insight into the motivations of mass murderers for future cases, but Sherlock eventually had to admit he simply didn’t see the appeal. It was necessary, and it was necessarily messy because living people generally didn’t hold still while one approached them with a weapon, but it wasn’t enjoyable. Not the way chases through alleys and across rooftops were enjoyable. Not the way laughing, breathless and hiding the stitch in his side was enjoyable. Not the way giggling, doubled over while John made half-hearted apologies to the police was enjoyable.

Stop.

Think.

Trap.

Refocused, Sherlock straightened and pushed the door open. He didn’t bother sneaking; he was expected. Moriarty’s organization should have toppled quickly, but for three long years he’d had to chip away at every part of it, burn every bit away so it didn’t immediately grow back. It argued strongly for someone very dangerously competent remaining at the head. He was barely, barely a hair ahead of them at every moment, and this was why. This trap was the culmination, what he had been carefully led and shepherded to with that sliver of focus his opponent had given to this rather than the machinations of his hired criminals.

The man’s life work had been sacrificed in a game that led to this house, and Sherlock still had no idea what the final blow would be. Still, once this was lived through, once this trap was sprung…

_Almost home. Almost home. Almost home._

And so here he was, stupidly leaping in, opting for speed rather than guile, and he knew he was already losing.

Which was fine, really; all he had to do was survive this last trial, get through it no matter how awful it was, and then it would be done.

_Almost home. Almost home. Almost home._

“I wondered if you would figure it out.” The voice had an uncomfortable lilt to it that even now grated at Sherlock’s teeth. “You were so very enthusiastic jumping. I had so many details taken care of that you didn’t even take the time to check.” The room was an old, dusty, Victorian library. Ridiculously dramatic, specifically chosen to be so. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Tedious.

Everything had been, throughout the game. It would have been fantastic, before. It had been fantastic, before. Then John had been involved, involved in the wrong way as a victim rather than a playmate, and it had stopped being fun.

“Come now,” Sherlock murmured, eyes darting about the room. He still couldn’t deduce the trap, and he was running out of time. It didn’t help that he had no idea how much time he had. “I can’t be the only man in London capable of faking a death. Even Irene managed admirably.”

Moriarty grinned.

“I did have trouble refraining from slitting your throat to make sure you stayed down,” Sherlock admitted, letting the boredom of the long, drawn out chase seep into his voice. “But as I intended to be found at the scene, it would hardly aid my return to society to be subsequently tried for your murder. Although it would have saved me from your unutterably boring game of tag.”

Moriarty’s expression of barely contained glee didn’t waver, and Sherlock struggled to keep down the slow twist of panic through his gut. The man was hopping on his toes with delight, clearly waiting for just the right moment; the chase hadn’t been the game. Oh, Moriarty had enjoyed it, and assumed Sherlock had enjoyed the myriad puzzles regardless of what he said, but this, here, was the point. This was not _an_ end, it was _the_ end, the goal.

Yet Moriarty had no men, no weapons, no backup.

The trap had already been sprung, and all that was left was to notify Sherlock.

Sherlock immediately discarded the sudden, panicked rush through his morning routine; what had he eaten, worn, touched, was it poisoned? Too simple, it would bore Moriarty. What had he missed at his previous unavoidable crimes, had he left something behind to wreck everything he had fixed? No, he had been perfect, and even if he hadn’t he had been monitoring progress by all authorities throughout to nip anything planted or falsified immediately, and would have caught any genuine evidence in the mix.

“This is proving to be just as interminable as your petulant games have all become, Jim.” Not a twitch at that name. Extremely dangerous. Proceed with caution. “You clearly have something you wish to tell me, and I simply can’t be bothered to take the time slogging through the hints you’ve no doubt wrapped up in little puzzles to come to it. I have somewhere I intend to be, very soon, and would rather you hurried it up.”

“Yes, I imagine you do.” If possible, Moriarty’s eyes lit up even further. This was the opening the man had been waiting for, and the panic wormed its way back. Sherlock crushed it down. “Your quaint little plan to return home, where all your pets are loyally waiting for you. It will be perfect and unchanged, of course.”

John.

The trap was John.

His face was clearly giving him away, but Moriarty already knew what Sherlock’s weak spot was. That was why Sherlock had allowed himself to be steered away from his former flat mate over the years, because it kept John out of it and let Moriarty feel more important.

Had John been informed of Sherlock’s actions? This seemed the most likely. He had committed a long list of what were widely considered unforgivable crimes, murder being the most obvious but hardly the only one.

Sherlock smiled. Moriarty had missed. The trap had missed.

Were John anyone else, it would have worked, but Moriarty had underestimated him. Even had Sherlock planned to keep John in the dark after returning (to a right hook after three years thought dead, most likely), it would not have lasted long. True, John was terrible at deduction through logical means. Still, he was uncomfortably and eerily astute when ferretting out emotions and demeanor, especially where Sherlock was concerned, although it may take several fights and a long think to get there. Sherlock could not allow himself to take a single action that would, by itself or in aggregate, force John away.

Thus, everything he had done was consistently within John’s comfort zone with a wide, very wide, margin for error. It may take longer than expected to reconcile, but the constant thought of

_Almost home. Almost home. Almost home._

had kept him from any unforgivable sins. Killing any innocents, for example. From crossing the boundary between using others and irreparably damaging them, for another, and any number of other, faster paths home that would leave him with no home to go to, eventually.

John could easily forgive death and deceit. He had experience with it, after all.

“I assume it will be unchanged, in fact,” Sherlock replied smugly. “The essentials always are. Any bumps in the proverbial road you have added will be smoothed out in time.”

_Almost home. Almost home. Almost home._

Moriarty laughed, delighted. “Death isn’t something one can generally smooth out, Sherlock, despite our coming back from it so readily. Dogs, when put down, do tend to stay that way.”

_Almost._

_Oh God._

_I was almost home._

Sherlock felt his hands shake on the phone he immediately went for. “That wasn’t in your rules. You were… I stayed away, you were to stay away, that’s…” Dialing. He began to dial the wrong number, erased it and dialed Mycroft. “You cheated at your own game,” He croaked, voice breaking, confused.

_Oh God._

_Please. You were safe this morning. Please._

Stop.

Think.

_Almost home. Almost home. Almost home._

“You don’t have anyone left send to him, and Mycroft gave me a very detailed report just this morning,” Sherlock stilled his tremors, felt the black fog recede. He looked up from the phone, calmed himself. “You’re lying.”

Moriarty’s smile remained unchanged, the same slightly uncomfortable rictus of an alien aping human. Odd, that this was his real smile and the perfect one was always an act. “Oh, you’re mostly right, Sherlock. I didn’t touch him, in any event. It’s so much more fun when I let you take care of things yourself.” He flopped down in one of the overwrought wingback chairs, dust billowing out around him. “I didn’t kill him, darling. Watching you splatter yourself on the pavement in front of him, bleeding his life out slowly as the world went on without you, watching his boring puppy life dwindle away from him, that killed him. Although you can always take comfort in the knowledge he didn’t suffer, physically. Suicide by way of a browning tends to be quick, if untidy.”

Panic. There was no ignoring it anymore. Mycroft picked up on the first ring, the subtle click of the receiver (old fashioned, an affectation Mycroft persisted with for the authority of that same click, for the drama of slamming it back into its cradle on very, very rare occasions) making a greeting unnecessary.

“How is John?”

_Almost._

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said softly, and clearly Sherlock’s emotions had bled through his voice and told Mycroft everything as clearly as his expression told Moriarty. A pit opened in Sherlock’s stomach. His limbs were heavy, numb, and he couldn’t find the breath to speak.

Mycroft had been lying to him.

“How long?” Sherlock managed, shaking again. He was giving everything away, with his voice, with his hands, with his face. He didn’t care.

“A year ago. Sherlock--” Mycroft’s voice was cut off as Sherlock spun, flinging the phone at a wall where it shattered a mirror and fell in pieces to the floor.

Moriarty bounced up again, skipped closer, so brilliantly joyful Sherlock closed his eyes.

Silence.

Nothing in his head now. Not the constant hope, the frustrated impatience, the unending worry, worry, _worry_.

It wasn’t a relief.

Triumphant, exultant, Moriarty giggled and threw an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. He didn’t move. “You’ve come along so well, Sherlock, you’ve done so many wonderful things, we’ve really played together so nicely.” He shook him, jovial and eager, but Sherlock didn’t move. “Lets play together, this time. It will be just us, without my big boring friends and your dull, yapping pet. We can have a real go of it.” He pulled Sherlock around, grip on his shoulders, looking up into his pinched, white face.

“It will be so much more fun this time. This time I can chase you.” Moriarty let out a high-pitched laugh, boyishly shaking Sherlock back and forth.

Sherlock opened his eyes.

Moriarty froze, realization of a mistake, a misstep, a horrible error dawning.

Sherlock could suddenly very much see the appeal of death and pain. He would make sure this was going to really, _really hurt._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if I've been unclear or could stand to fix anything-- I'm working without a beta and I am horribly anxious about it!

Sherlock heard a cough above him and glanced up to see Mycroft, red and out of breath, leaning on his umbrella like John did his—

Stop.

Sherlock was sticky, uncomfortable, yet a bit pleased that he could taste what was left of Moriarty, thick and coppery behind his teeth. He tried not to get anything in his mouth, but when there was so much mess…

Probably a bit not good. Sherlock didn’t care.

Sherlock’s knife had been dull, so he had taken quite some time to get in the state he was. His coat and hands were bloody, drenched, dripping, his hair and face streaked where he’d run his fingers. It wasn’t the first time he’d been covered in red, but it was the first time he’d smiled because of it. His coat was beyond saving and it didn’t even bother him.

Sherlock stabbed the blade down into the remains and stood.

“Good afternoon, Mycroft. Out for a stroll, were we?” He didn’t recognize his own voice; it was bright, lilting, and he cut himself off because it sounded too much like the man now lying, split open, on the floor. He cleared his throat and intentionally deepened it. “I’m afraid you’re too late to touch him for letting me in on your secret. He died a few moments back.” 

“For God’s sake, Sherlock,” Mycroft finally managed. He tore his eyes away from Moriarty, from Sherlock’s hands, and at last met his eyes. “This is beyond enough. You’re lucky I’m here; if it had been the police, not even the Queen could have kept you from spending the rest of your life in a tiny cement room.” He stepped back as Sherlock shrugged, wiping his hands on his trousers. It didn’t help, except to make him more terrifying. 

There was a huge divide between seeing Sherlock on a screen covered in pig’s blood and seeing him now, drenched in something that used to be human. He tried again. “You’ve left evidence of yourself everywhere. This will take ages to clean up, Sherlock, its not like you.”

Sherlock shrugged again, unconcerned. “Moriarty chose quite a good location for dismembering a body; no neighbors are likely to come by for months, let alone police. By the time it becomes an issue, well, it won’t be an issue.”

Sherlock did not plan to be around long enough for it to become one, really.

Mycroft froze, color draining from his face. “Won’t be an issue?” 

“Come now, Mycroft, you’re slipping. You’ve rushed out here after my phone call because you knew what I would do. Well. I’ve half finished it now. As soon as you have directed me to the cemetery—“

“Which cemeter—“

“ _The_ cemetery,” Sherlock bit off, “I shall complete the second half. I can find it out on my own, but as my phone has been rendered unusable, I would prefer you simply tell me.” Sherlock pulled his cuffs down, quickly, looking for all the world as if he hadn’t just brutally, slowly, murdered the man still lying prone at his feet. Sherlock followed Mycroft’s gaze back down, and his face twisted; he gave the corpse a swift kick and turned away.

“Brother,” Mycroft started, conciliatory, and Sherlock suddenly rounded on him. His wet, red coat swung, dripping and heavy, before slapping back against his legs, and Mycroft stumbled back to avoid him as he stalked forward.

“Do _not_ attempt to placate me, _Mycroft_ ,” Sherlock spit. His fists clenched, nails (bare hands had kept them from slipping as much, plus it kept him closer to what he was doing) biting into his palms, and suddenly his face and demeanor matched the rest of him; furious, bloodthirsty, murderous. He was clearly no longer hindered by the worry and ethics that had slowed him down before; Moriarty’s body was proof of that. Mycroft paled, looking as though it had just occurred to him that being alone with Sherlock was, in fact, unsafe. Extremely unsafe. 

The man had stood alone in a room with Moriarty and had turned out to the most dangerous one there.

“What did you plan to do once I came back?” Sherlock breathed, advancing, and Mycroft stumbled away against his will. “What did you expect to happen? _Why didn’t you tell me before?_ ”

“There were no signs. I didn’t know it would happen, Sherlock, I promise you.” Mycroft stopped himself, visibly took a breath, and met Sherlock’s eyes. His hands remained still on his umbrella, and Sherlock, through his rage, entertained a brief spike of envy as he seemed to be the only one with tremors. “And once it had, what could be gained? You would have fallen apart just as you are now, and then it would have been all for nothing. John’s death would have been for nothing! Would you have gone to his funeral? Sentiment,” Mycroft hissed, “is found in the losing side, I believe you once said. There was nothing that could be done, and completing your plans for the day will not aid any cause save Moriarty’s.”

Sherlock paused, then slumped against the bookshelves, rage seeping from him. “I have already lost. Now I need to fix it.”

Mycroft sighed. “Regardless, no cemetery staff will allow you past the gates looking like that. I have a change of clothes for you in my car—let me take care of this while you clean up.”

Sherlock stared at him for a beat or so, then turned on his heel and left the room. He left behind red footprints. Mycroft pursed his lips and considered the problem at hand.

Sherlock stumbled back into the room, hair wet but clean, just as Mycroft finished tipping the remains of an oil lamp (the room was beyond over dramatic. What had Moriarty been thinking?) over some paperbacks scattered against the bookshelves. Enough to start a good blaze and keep it going until the wooden house caught completely, not enough to keep him from making sure it was labeled an accident rather than arson. Sherlock sneered.

“It really isn’t necessary.”

“Then pretend I’m doing it for my career if not yours.”

Mycroft was disheveled, hair out of place, his suit dirty with dust and wrinkled with exertion. He’d clearly come alone; worried he couldn’t entirely trust his employees? Succumbing to hated sentiment, making his help more personal and immediate? Penance? Sherlock didn’t know. He didn’t care. “You look like one of your thugs, Mycroft. No wonder you abhor legwork.”

“Interesting observation, Sherlock, considering your appearance as I came in today.”

Sherlock grimaced. “You’re planning something.”

“I am desperately attempting to plan something.” Mycroft stood and turned to him, miserable, exasperated, lost. “You have always been as clever as I am, but with a different direction and far less concern for your own wellbeing. Now you have absolutely no care for your wellbeing and likely have fewer limitations on your actions than you did even before John Watson. I can’t imagine how I would prevent you from your plans, short of exhuming the man’s body and interring him in my office.” He pulled out a box of matches and glanced at his brother for confirmation; Sherlock nodded. He was finished with the house. Mycroft lit the books, watching to be certain the flame caught and held. 

“But I am anxiously trying to come up with anything that will keep you from it.”

Sherlock sneered. “You had a year to think about it.”

“And I had quite a few ideas until I saw you today.”

They watched the flames in silence for a bit, until they were licking the ceiling and could be trusted to consume all the evidence left behind.

“I will… miss you.” Mycroft murmured.

“No doubt you will.”

***

Sherlock had finally stopped shaking.

Was this how John felt when he lost the limp, the tremor? Had everything slotted into place and the voices and distractions stopped and he finally knew what he needed to do, where he was supposed to be—Sherlock was clinical, numb, free of all those webs of possibilities clouding up his mind, turning it in on itself, eating him up with _what if, what if, what if_. He couldn’t be bothered with social niceties because it added one more branch of possibility to tangle up his head, one more level to the endless game of chess he played with the world when he couldn’t distract himself somehow. _If I did this, then this might happen, or this, if that happened, this might follow_ and it never _ended_ , branching out into infinity until a case or drugs or John _God John_

Stop.

It all ran like clockwork now, all the twists and branches of his thoughts smooth and clean. There was one direction, one choice, and as soon as he took it everything would stop and leave him alone. 

Sherlock leaned back against the tombstone, ruining his second set of trousers that day against the wet grass and mud. Mycroft probably had several pair in the boot of his car, but for the first time in years he’d done what Sherlock asked and had left him alone.

Sentiment. He couldn’t bear to watch, and Sherlock couldn’t bear him intruding.

“I didn’t realize.” 

His own voice startled him; the cemetery was so quiet, the commentary gone from his mind, that speaking seemed to break the stillness. It was sentiment, foolish, and Sherlock cleared his throat and continued to spite it. 

Of course, he spoke out of sentiment as well, but he’d been told that it was what one did in these situations.

“I didn’t see this path. I didn’t think you would… I told you it was a trick and I thought you would understand. I thought you would… Continue. Wait.”

His hands started shaking again. His heart beat faster, and he felt tears pricking his eyes. It seemed his previous calm and clarity was shock after all (he should probably have a blanket) (John would have laughed at that) but while it was vaguely disappointing, it would not be for long.

“I didn’t mean to lie to you. I’m fixing it. I’m fixing it so you’ll be right, you won’t have done it unnecessarily, you’ll be right and it will be all right that you’re gone.” He fumbled at his pocket, breathed. Lifted the vial to the light (he’d planned to use it on Moriarty but it turned out poison was just so fast), brought it to his lips and—

_::You sodding BASTARD, don’t you DARE kill yourself in front of me AGAIN::_

Something heavy and solid hit Sherlock from behind, crushing the small bottle under his weight and knocking his nose solidly against the ground. He felt the shock in his sinuses and smelled blood. It poured from his face (the shirt was ruined now, too) and he turned over and scrambled away, searching for his attacker.

Nothing was there. His back had been right up against the tombstone, how did anything hit him from behind?

Emotion flooded back (worse, now, after being numb, like a stopped hose) and Sherlock’s tremors turned to deep, teeth rattling shudders. His knees gave out, sending him to the ground again, and the tears won the battle to fall free and mix with the new blood on his face. He choked, sobbed, gasped, gripped the cool stone of John Watson’s grave and broke against it.

“You’re a bastard yourself, John, how am I supposed to manage without you here to fix me?” he leaned forward against the lettering, fingers tracing the words (just a name, clean, simple), and wept.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I guess I lied about letting up on the angst. What can I say, Sherlock is grieving and possibly bug-nuts insane. ALSO! If you're confused where chapter four went, this is what I posted as chapter four-- chapter three was really just a temporary snippet of this chapter. YOU HAVEN'T LOST ANY FIC! IT'S OK! :D

Gentle fingers carded through his hair, touched his cheek. It was…nice, but unfamiliar. Warm.

_::Wake up, Sherlock. You’ll catch your death. Go home.::_

Sherlock woke in the dark with a start, damp, cold, and alone (wet grass and cold stone against his face, fingers aching and clutching earth. Conclusion: fell asleep mewling in a cemetery). Crying hadn’t suited him when he was young, it hadn’t suited him when he had jumped, and it didn’t now; his nose was stuffed up, his head throbbed, his eyes were swollen and gritty, and he would be miserable even if he hadn’t spent the past few hours sleeping on a grave. He opened his eyes and struggled to lever himself off the ground, limbs numb and cramped.

He’d heard John. Before he broke down like a blubbering infant, like an idiot child, he’d heard John yell at him, and it had been John’s voice he woken to now. 

_Surely I’m not the only man in London who can convincingly fake his own death._

It was the work of a moment to find a shed, break the lock, pull a shovel from the corner and make his way back to John.

Probably a bit not good, but he had to be sure. He would be sure. Irene had fooled him, but she had fooled him because it had been unexpected and he’d had only a short observation of her; Moriarty hadn’t fooled him, because he’d been looking for the trick. This time he would be looking and no one, no one had learned John like Sherlock had. No one had observed him as closely at such length. 

He would be sure.

His hands weren’t used to digging, and they were bloody and blistered when he hit the wood of the coffin. His shaking (surely at some point he would stop shaking? He couldn’t continue forever? Surely?) was mostly from exhaustion and exertion by the time he’d levered it open and—

_::Christ Sherlock, don’t touch me with those hands, at the very least wear gloves. You have some in your pocket. Decomposing body parts pressed against open wounds has never, ever, been a good idea.::_

Sherlock paused. The voice was definitely, certainly John’s, the cadences perfect and the tone exact, but… it sounded different, somehow. Off. He pulled on the gloves and reached into the casket. 

After a year spent decomposing, John was likely unrecognizable to his own mother, but Sherlock didn’t need to rely on an intact body when facial structure was clear from the bone, when so much was obvious from the patterns of decay. It was… definitely John. He felt it like a kick in the gut, but it was without a doubt John’s body. In a casket. Completely, undeniably, dead.

Which likely meant he was hallucinating the voice. It was off because he wasn’t hearing it with his ears, he realized, it was all inside his head.

Well why not? Surely the Met wouldn’t mind a hallucinating serial murderer capable of outwitting the greatest criminal mastermind they’d ever encountered, waltzing around London as he slowly deteriorated? Lestrade would be happy to have him back and talking aloud to his dead, very dead, flatmate. He might not begin picking off the yarders one by one in a fit of delusion and paranoia. On the other hand, Sherlock would likely be too mad to care by that point. He did hope he didn’t kill Lestrade, though.

Anderson might be alright.

Bit not good, that. Sherlock stared at his hands for a moment, then took up the shovel again. 

If John was dead after all, he wouldn’t be able to argue with him for bringing body parts into the flat again.

***

Sherlock turned out to be wrong about the argument. He always missed something, but it was inexcusable think John would not be John just because he wasn’t there.

_::More than a bit not good, Sherlock. You brought back my head? My head. You’ve put MY HEAD into the refrigerator. Why the refrigerator? You’re a bit late to hold off decomposition. I’ve got mold on me.::_

Sherlock was placing locks of John’s hair (hair and bone would last longest when kept properly) into the ice cube tray over a layer of resin, while also considering the best way to strip John’s skull. He had long practice letting John’s complaints wash over him and it could have been almost comforting if he was a bit further insane. It wasn’t a bother, really, but it was vaguely uncomfortable to have such a clear reminder of how far around the bend he’d traveled without the calm of full delusion.

_::What if Mrs. Hudson realizes someone is in my old flat? Or if she comes up to dust, she clearly does, and finds you here with my head? She’s not young, Sherlock, a heart attack would probably be the best-case scenario. And after what she told me about her husband, you’ll be lucky if she just brains you with a poker as soon as she recovered.::_

“I don’t know why you’re complaining so much, John. Look, I’m only keeping your hair and skull, that’s practically normal. Boring people keep locks of hair all the time, and skulls are only slightly discomforting.” Sherlock poured together the setting agent and resin, stirred, and topped up the cubes. “I even cleaned your hair first. For a madman hallucinating your voice, I’m extremely stable so far.”

_::Sorry. You’re not going mad. I’ll stop.::_

“No, it’s… Fine.”

Not only was Sherlock having auditory hallucinations, he was starting to see wisps of grey smoke curling around the box he was keeping the John’s head in. He’d later slid it into the crisper to avoid them, as visual hallucinations were generally considered a Very Bad Sign, but now the grey was twining about the flat, giving the strong impression of John pottering about while he worked. Sherlock blinked, hard, and slid the tray aside before standing and looking about him aimlessly.

This was why he had cubed the hair in epoxy—some part of him refused to be parted from John regardless of how very, very dead he was, but he couldn’t take the skull with him outside without attracting more attention than he needed, especially if he went on an insane, murderous rampage (which he still halfway hoped would include Anderson). He hovered over the ice cube tray, willing it to set faster, but there were several hours left and he would be unable to leave to obtain the necessary beetles until it had.

He settled for stalking uselessly around the flat. This lasted for about five minutes before he threw himself, disgusted, on the couch and let up a cloud of dust.

_Moriarty flinging himself into a wingback chair, dust billowing about him as he--_

Stop.

_::Eat something.::_

Sherlock glanced down at the plate of toast at his elbow and frowned.

Magically appearing toast. Because of course.

There was really no good possibility here. Either he was now hallucinating toast (on the upside, it was certainly outside of the ordinary), or he had gotten up, obtained bread, made the toast, forgotten about it and convinced himself it had suddenly shown up on its own. When? How? There wasn’t any bread in the flat; it had been unused for the past year (sentiment on Mrs. Hudson’s part, no doubt. Sherlock grudgingly approved). Had he broken into her flat, stolen her bread, come back and made toast exactly as John always had (the curve of the top facing down, obvious in the browning pattern) before leaving it on the table and wiping it from his mind? Unlikely, but he'd never been mad before, so theoretically possible, he supposed. Both options were troubling.

On the other hand, either way it couldn’t hurt to eat the toast, and it would definitely make the hallucinated voice of John in his head happy.

He chewed it slowly, and he drank the tea that showed up when he looked away, too. A quick glance through the refrigerator turned up no milk (only a box with John’s head in it). Probably sensory hallucinations, then, unless he’d made it somewhere else. 

He should probably order some take-away, just in case he was eating air. Not-really-John would be upset if he starved himself to death.

***

It was telling, how quickly Sherlock became used to John’s voice in his head. Sherlock stayed in 221B and was sure to walk quietly when Mrs. Hudson was home, and shocked Not-John by doing the shopping so he wouldn’t wander into her kitchen in a fit of delusion to make the endless toast and tea that kept appearing at his side. 

At first, he had only responded to the visions and voices when he was directly spoken to, but three years had left him filled with moments; the quick glance to his right to share an observation, a joke, a smile, only to find John absent. Sherlock was certainly making up for it now, filling the silence far more than he ever had before. He filled it with every thought and shared look he’d saved, and since this wasn’t really John, he could say things he would never, in a lifetime, have said when he was living. 

The first time he had told Not-John he loved him, the apparition (John grew stronger and more present every day; the wisps of smoke were clearer and occasionally filled in the familiar outline of a leaning figure in a thick jumper) had broken apart in shock. Sherlock had started, regretting more than he should the disappearance of his strongest sign of madness, but in the morning, the covers were tucked up close about him (he ran cold when he slept) and tea was steaming in a clean mug on his bedside table.

Sherlock wrapped himself in the bedsheet and brought the mug with him into the kitchen, where Not-John was drifting between the sink and the stovetop. Eggs were cooking in a pan. Had Sherlock started them? His hair didn’t smell of eggs yet, as it always did when he made them—either he was hallucinating the eggs or ignoring the smell. The food he had bought was always used when it was there, but being out of eggs or toast didn’t stop them being made, it just stopped him seeing them mid-preparation. Sherlock hadn’t decided if it was entirely imagined and he would starve if he didn’t eat anything else, or if he was making it all himself, but both possibilities led to the logical conclusion that it was best to be sure he didn’t run out of supplies of his own. Sherlock frowned, doing a quick calculation in his head, and decided to pick up more milk as he was almost certainly running low.

The eggs shifted from the stove to a plate at his side when he looked away from them. There weren’t burned, as they should have been if Sherlock had put them into a hot pan, made tea, gone back to bed and woken himself up again. Probably insubstantial, then. He ate them anyway.

_::Last night.::_

Sherlock rolled his eyes and scooped up the last of the eggs with the (magically appearing) toast. He’d checked the toaster after a similar occurrence a few days ago, and it was warm as though it had been recently used. As that had been a day when he hadn’t had any bread in the house, it made no sense and Sherlock got frustrated whenever he thought about it.

_::You said--::_

“I’m perfectly capable of remembering my own words, John, thank you,” Sherlock snapped. The toast didn’t make sense. The eggs didn’t make sense. He was insane or drugged or in a coma and it was all from his own mind, so one would think he would force it to make _sense_. Not-John spoke directly into his head, but couldn’t hear him unless he spoke aloud, and didn’t follow his trains of thought unless he explained them; but he was a figment of Sherlock’s imagination, the limitations didn’t make sense _either_ , he had no idea what was going on and he didn’t _like it_.

_::But you never--::_

“Dying hasn’t cleared up anything for you, John, has it?” Sherlock threw his dish angrily into the sink, where it shattered. He felt guilty, then angry for feeling guilty. “Of course I never. But you’re not really here, are you? You’re a voice and a figure that my sentimental, mad head has come up with to placate myself with. I can tell you whatever I like and it won’t matter.” He kicked the kitchen chair out of his way and stalked over to the couch, falling upon it with as much noise as he could muster. 

Not-John was silent, but drifted closer to him. It was odd how he moved, almost a full human shape but trailing wisps of himself that dissipated behind him. He was like smoke that just happened to drift into the shape of a man. It was the most disconcerting when he moved quickly, as smoke rarely did, but now he was slow, almost hesitant. He stopped in the middle of the room, clearly uncertain if he should come closer or retreat to a chair. Sherlock huffed and turned his back on him, curled angrily against the back of the couch. Hiding so John wouldn’t see his face was nothing new, except John was in his head so of course he couldn’t hide, but then John wouldn’t know for no good reason at all… Endlessly upsetting. 

Added to the grief, loneliness, guilt and shame he was trying desperately to push down (illogical, he couldn’t have known how poorly John would have taken it) (He _should_ have known, John would have known were it him), cloying, appalling, useless sentiment was constantly welling up and making him swing strongly back and forth between moods. 

He was angry right now, but he would fall into stupid, childish tears again soon. He knew it from experience. Usually Not-John would lose his form to curl around him like steam, warming him and surrounding him, but now he stood too far away and it made Sherlock angry, and sad, that his own hallucination was not doing exactly what he wanted it to when he wanted it.

“You’re not real. All of this, the eggs, the toast, the tea; it’s all in my head. I’ve made up a fake John to cry and complain to because I wasted you when you were real, I was stupid, _stupid_ , I thought you would wait but you didn’t. I killed you and I didn’t even know, I didn’t know until Moriarty told me with the smug, smiling face of his—“

 _::_ Moriarty _told you?::_

“—and I cut off his smile but it didn’t work,”

 _::Uh,::_

“You were still gone and how did I not _know_? I should have known, I should have done it differently, I only wanted to save you and protect you and I bolloxed it up—“

 _::Sherlock stop.::_ Not-John drifted close, reached out to touch him. It felt like John’s presence, warm and steadfast, calm and dependable. _::You didn’t kill me. Whoever shot me killed me, no matter what you feel you’d done to encourage them.::_

Sherlock was silent for a moment, then turned over. He stared at the ceiling.

“John, you shot yourself.”

He could _feel_ Not-John’s confusion when he was close like this. _::No, I wouldn’t have done that.::_ The specter shook its head. _::Why would I have done that?::_

“Because I’m a fool.” Sherlock would have elaborated, but he was well through the strop and clearly on his way to the blubbering like a lovesick teenager stage of the morning, and he wanted to avoid it if he could. Sherlock stood abruptly, pushing _through_ Not-John, and felt a slight resistance before Not-John broke apart around him (poor mental phrasing, John would laugh). He headed directly back into his bedroom, but stopped at the door.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I love you.” He managed, turning, clearly into the ridiculous emotional stage by now with absolutely no control over his actions. It was enough to make him almost glad John wasn’t really there to see him brought so low, but then he wouldn’t be this broken. Sherlock clamped his teeth to avoid looking like an even bigger idiot than he did, and shut the door.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT: Make sure to go to chapter 3 and be sure you've read it. I did some cuts and deleted the snipped I posted, which mixed things around-- be sure you have read the full length chapter 3. This chapter will still make sense, but I totally put some awesome shit in there. You will miss out. Once you've read it and this one, leave me comments to tell me what I screwed up on.

John Watson didn’t remember dying.

The whole day was gone, along with huge swaths of his memory. It didn’t bother him—for some reason it was easier to ignore things after he’d died, and John was first-class at ignoring what he didn’t want to think on even when he had been alive. Especially before Sherlock returned, when the biggest thought he ignored was _Sherlock is gone_ , the image of his best friend lying shattered on the pavement just below his thoughts. Things started breaking around him now when he failed to avoid it. 

He remembered some things, and usually, luckily, they seemed to be the important things. He couldn’t remember where he used to work, or who with, but they must have been medical or military because he knew he was a doctor and a soldier. He remembered he kept his things neat and tidy, but couldn’t remember what most of them were. He remembered worry for his sister, though he tried not to do it often. Things shook when he worried about Harry.

He remembered every moment with Sherlock.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been dead, either. After he’d been shot the first time, in Afghanistan, there had been a grey pall over the world, and it had been a struggle to push through it and interact. Sherlock had ripped that aside with excitement and danger and laughter, but it had slammed back down again when he left. Even as John had struggled to pull it away himself by looking for that danger outside of Sherlock (he still didn’t remember what he’d done, just that it was important it was dangerous or frantic), the fog had remained, making him wait that moment too long before responding to a question or laughing at a joke. After his own death, nothing had been dangerous or important, that grey fog had thickened and the things he thought about were fewer and further between.

He’d forgotten to be angry when Sherlock had visited his grave, so filled with joy and relief that he was _back_. He began pulling himself back together, memories returning unbidden and surprising in his mind; _I bought that jumper that’s tucked into Sherlock’s closet_ and _Why on earth did I dent the telly there?_ popping like soap bubbles into his thoughts. 

It was like making tea, toast, and number of things he did now without thinking because that was what he did when Sherlock hadn’t eaten or slept. If he stopped and thought about it, he had no idea where the materials came from if they weren’t clearly available in the flat. He couldn’t decide to make tea to test himself and really focus on it—it was possible after a fashion, but it was like doing it backwards—he kept forgetting how to perform the most basic tasks, like what to put in first or how to lift the mug from the cupboard. He couldn’t think about pulling the trailing wisps of himself together, either, or he drifted apart, but if he wasn’t paying attention he would occasionally startle himself by touching Sherlock and really feeling him, as if he were still alive. 

It was confusing.

He was happy anyway, back with Sherlock in 221B, although there was a mounting discomfort with how broken and emotional Sherlock was—he wasn’t getting better, and he wasn’t going out. Worse, (and John had never expected to have this thought) he was sleeping more. He was staring at the wall but clearly not thinking about anything, or thinking about the same thing over and over without dissecting it the way he usually did. 

He was getting careless when he did the shopping (the shopping!) and didn’t notice the CCTV cameras around him. John reached up and touched them just in time, shorting their wires and covering them in static right before they reported back to Mycroft. 

Of course, he should have realized Mycroft would notice a string of shorted out cameras just as quickly as he would notice his brother on a crowded street. John found it difficult to think about moments past _right now_ since he’d died, and _right now_ , Mycroft didn’t get the satisfaction of watching Sherlock do his errands. 

He hadn’t realized Mycroft had thought Sherlock was dead, for real this time. The first hint had been the agent (quiet, unthreatening) John had spotted at the shops. 

_::You’re being tailed,::_ he’d whispered in Sherlock’s ear, and the great idiot had spun and just _looked_ at the man. The man had turned stark white, pulled out a phone, and immediately called someone. Sherlock had turned away and finished his walk home.

Ten minutes later, Sally Donovan, of all people, slammed the door open, looking more out of sorts than John had ever seen her, and John had seen her after a week with a total of four hours of sleep and two changes of clothes. 

Sally didn’t look like the past year or so had been good to her, but John couldn’t remember why not. He knew the media firestorm against Sherlock had hit everyone who had worked with him, and Greg Lestrade had lost a great deal because of it, but it had been close to the incident and John couldn’t quite remember. Some of it had hit Sally, too, though surely her constant belittling and negative reports on Sherlock had helped her in the review. Now she looked like she’d seen a ghost, which was amusing and ironic and Sherlock seemed to think the same thing. He laughed, glancing at John as he made tea in the kitchen.

John had always found it difficult to like Sally, when she had so completely hated Sherlock, but he had respected her. It was difficult to be female and black at the yard and still keep respect, and she did it by being meaner and tougher than everyone else expected. It would be especially difficult when Sherlock did things like call you out for sleeping with a coworker in front of your boss, and John wasn’t surprised that she got tougher and meaner to try to hold on to her dignity. Sherlock brought out the worst in a lot of people, but Sally was good at her job. She honestly believed that Sherlock was a danger, a real danger, so she tried to minimize it by obstructing him at every opportunity and had watched his every move like a hawk. John tried not to think about the look Sherlock sometimes got now, the flash he sometimes saw in soldiers when they realized the enormity of their actions at war then pushed it away. She’d been wrong about Sherlock before, but John worried that she wasn’t now, and Sherlock _had_ always done his best to show her his worst side.

It was why John had chinned the chief inspector but not her, back when _don’t think about it don’t think don’t think_ \--

The cup rattled on the counter and John ruthlessly pushed everything away. Unfortunately, now that he was concentrating, he couldn’t continue making the tea. Instead he drifted, formless _stop thinking just fall into pattern_ over to Sherlock, currently gripping his violin. He was staring at Sally’s shoes. Why her shoes? Probably reading the last several years in them. It would make the memory loss easier to deal with if John could do that. 

Sally glanced at the cup, then drew herself up and visibly pulled herself together. “So you are alive.”

“Mycroft called you.”

“He’s had us looking for your body for the past two weeks. He thought you’d offed yourself again.” She clearly couldn’t decide whether to be happy or disappointed. Sherlock rolled his eyes so hard he would likely do himself damage one day.

 _::Your face is going to stick that way,::_ John whispered in his ear, and the detective grinned. 

“It didn’t work out as planned.” He dragged the bow along the violin in a short shriek, then set it aside. It was familiar, comfortable, and John solidified his presence more. 

Sally glanced at John’s skull, sitting on the mantle. “Please tell me that’s the same human skull you had before, and not a new one. Because that looks like a new one, and I got a report on my desk about a certain grave that had been disturbed two weeks ago today.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“ _Sherlock_ ” Sally finally managed, turning to him, aghast. 

Sherlock looked offended. “I only took his skull. I left most of him there. I don’t know what everyone is making such a fuss over.” He stood abruptly and turned away from her, staring out the window. “So you’re in my brother’s employ now. Odd, considering your animosity towards John and I. He pays you quite well and probably helped you get Lestrade’s job, didn’t he?” Sally glared. “What does he have on you? You wouldn’t let yourself be bought by a Holmes unless something forced your hand. Slept with someone you shouldn’t have?”

“Fuck right off about the my love life, yeah?” She hissed, furious. “You don’t give a shit who I sleep with and there’s no one around to embarrass me in front of. I can fuck who I like and you can bloody well stop bringing it up.” She crossed her arms, turned away. “And he’s got guilt, if you must know.”

“Guilt?” Sherlock looked surprised. John drifted around his ankles, confused. There was something nagging at him, some thread of a memory, but he couldn’t get ahold of it. When he tried, he got upset; Sherlock’s vacant chair skittered sideways a centimeter and John resolutely cleared his mind. “You hardly seem likely to feel bad about having me arrested and accusing me of murder and kidnapping.”

“I’m not sorry about that,” Sally grit her teeth, “I was doing my job. And I never had any animosity towards John. I liked John. That’s why I warned him about you so often, and look where ignoring me got him.”

Sherlock’s face…twisted. His eyes went dark and he moved suddenly towards her; Sally backed away, unsurprised but wary. 

“Touching me will only prove me right,” she said, voice steady. Mycroft had been surprised to see blatant danger radiating from his brother; Sally had always expected it. “How many people did you murder to clear your name and bring down Moriarty’s organization? There’s no way it could have been done the way it was done through legal means. I can’t get you on any of it, but I have never been wrong about you except in the particulars. You didn’t fake your cases; well done. You snapped anyway and now you’re back, and I’m hoping John was right about you.” She looked away then, towards the skull then away, to the floor. “He told me you would never risk doing something he couldn’t forgive you for.” She didn’t look too sure about it now, and John wasn’t either. Sherlock looked dangerous, and Sally looked like she was thinking about whether it had been a good idea to come alone to the home of someone she suspected of serial murder, who was also the smartest man in London and very familiar with the local police work.

Sherlock smiled, and it was cold, frightening. John was certain Sherlock wouldn’t harm Sally, but she clearly wasn’t. Her hand drifted towards her gun. “That’s mostly true. I had one lapse, which I can tell you already know about through my brother—did you get stuck falsifying the paperwork? But unless you plan to murder John, and I can’t see that being an issue now, you’re highly unlikely to see me do it again.” Sherlock settled back into his chair, but didn’t gesture for her to sit. She didn’t look like she would have done, anyway. “I can’t imagine what you would be guilty about, unless it’s your abysmal skills as a law enforcer, but you are here for something other than ascertaining my wellbeing or you would be gone by now. So what is it?”

Sally pulled her gun, flipped the safety off, and leveled it at Sherlock’s face. John tensed (tensed what? He didn’t have anything to tense) and the curtains billowed suddenly from closed windows, but she didn’t fire. Sherlock just looked at her.

“Ah. So it does have to do with John’s death. I’d wondered.” He cocked his head, icy and emotionless, and John was no longer as sure about him hurting her. “You left evidence here.”

“I didn’t know he’d die after I left. We had an argument and I didn’t come back to get my coat.”

John was…pretty certain she hadn’t shot him, but she was doing a terrible job of explaining if she didn’t. Sherlock clearly agreed. He rolled his eyes and dropped into his seat, dismissive. “You’re lucky I know already it was a suicide, or you would have a good reason to be holding that gun on me. I’m afraid I’ve become used to firearms pointed in my direction by people who don’t particularly want to shoot—You’re not scaring me with it and you might as well put it away.”

Sally glared. “I don’t think it was a suicide.”

Sherlock froze.

“I was here because he was the one that pulled together the final proof that Richard Brooks was a fake. He called me and begged and threatened me into coming to look at it; it was solid. Moriarty was real. John had school yearbooks, letters, you name it. He’d spent the last two years researching him.” She didn’t put the gun down. “He wasn’t suicidal, he was determined. And he didn’t believe you were dead; why would he kill himself if he’d just proved you innocent and thought you were alive? And John’s the type who would shoot himself in the head, not the chest.”

Sherlock waved her words off with an irritated hand, but he stayed focused on her face as she spoke. “You have more than psychology; what is it?”

“There were powder burns around the wound.”

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed. His hands came up to rest against his lips as they often did when he was thinking furiously. “Were there.”

She nodded grimly. “I’m being told to forget about it because he could, possibly, have held the gun far enough away from his chest when he shot it to leave the burns. Not all suicides hold the gun pressed right up against the flesh. Most do, though, and John would have.”

“And the angle would be awkward anyway, especially with his shoulder,” Sherlock murmured. “it would only have been more awkward to hold it away from himself, and difficult to aim. Enough evidence even the yard would usually look into it—You did something that turned them off it.”

Sally gripped the gun more carefully. “I don’t want it to be a suicide because I said some things to him about you. About him. Things that could be the reason he chose that night to shoot himself, if he had. The yard knows and thinks I’m being emotional.” She spit the final word, angry and offended. The yard was in for a rough time if the brass continued to patronize her.

“And though you’re fairly sure it was murder, you’re afraid it still could have been suicide and I’m going to kill you for it.”

Sally said nothing, just watched him.

“You wanted to be the one to come because you wanted to face it straight on. Brave. Stupid. You should have run.” He stood, but Sally only raised the gun smoothly to follow him. “Oh, but you knew I found Moriarty. I could hardly be challenged finding you.” He cocked his head. “But you couldn’t know for certain I would find out about your fight.”

“I can’t know what you know.” 

“True. Your simple little mind can’t put together the most basic of clues, at the best of times. I’m vaguely impressed, this seems your best course of action, considering.” 

_::If she shoots you because you’re too much of a dick to tell her you’re not going to kill her, I won’t stop her.::_ John says, exasperated and nervous about the live firearm in his flatmate’s face. Sally’s eyes went wide and she gasped, but she was too well trained to shoot accidentally. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Sally, I’ve no plans at the moment to torture you for half a day then set you on fire. Put the gun down,” he drawled, exasperated. 

Then his eyes narrowed. “You heard him.” 

“How did you _do_ that?” She stuttered, gun swinging down towards the floor. She didn’t put on the safety, but at least it wasn’t pointed at Sherlock. John relaxed slightly, and the curtains stilled. “You sick fuck, that sounded just like him.”

“You heard him too.” Sherlock presses, and Sally glares.

“I’m not deaf, freak.” She stares around the room. “It’s not a recording, unless you regularly discussed the possibility of my shooting you for being a dick. Computers?” 

Sherlock scoffs. “Why does everyone nowadays say ‘computers’ the way they would say ‘magic’? We’re still decades away from an AI that can respond in a socially appropriate way to language without sounding like a psychologist—have you any idea how difficult it would be to additionally program in John’s vocal patterns, sense of humor, and tone? No, of course not, because ‘computers’! God, I’m adding you to my list after Anderson.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t give a shit how you did it, you sick bastard, you keep his skull on your mantel and you have his voice played in the flat you used to live in. There are lines you don’t cross, freak.”

John had had enough. _::And if you don’t have anything to do but insult Sherlock, Sally, you can leave.::_

She glared around the room, looking for speakers. “I’ll stop insulting him when he stops piping you into my head.”

Sherlock smiled. “I haven’t been hallucinating. You heard him.”

Sally swung back towards him. “You thought you were hallucinating John’s voice and you holed up in his old flat instead of seeking help?”

“Make a deduction, Donovan, how nervous would the yard become if they knew I was going mental? Estimate?”

 _::Stop fighting or I’ll put you both in the corner.::_ John sighed, set tea down at Sherlock’s elbow, and turned to Sally. _::Did you want anything?::_

Donovan shrieked and pulled her gun on him. John paused.

Oh. He hadn’t been thinking about it. He was now as corporeal as he got recently, grey and solid-looking and John-shaped. He raised his hands and tried to look harmless. _::It’s just me.::_ She stared at John, horrified.

Sally’s gun swung on Sherlock again. He raised his eyebrows. 

“You son of a bitch,” She managed, shaking. “ _What the hell did you do to him?_ ”

Sherlock frowned. “I didn’t do anything. He came with the skull.”

Sally was gaping and her hands were far from steady. “It wasn’t enough, all you did to him when he was alive. It wasn’t enough that you put him in harms way every day, ripped him to shreds by making him watch your fake death, then got him killed because let’s face it, whoever shot him did it because of your stupid puzzles, Sherlock. You won’t even leave him be once you’ve gotten him murdered? There are lines, Sherlock, you didn’t think to _put him back_ when he started talking to you? You thought you’d just drag him back to 221B and make him take care of you again?” Her voice had steadily risen throughout and was a shriek by the end, hysterical and angry. “I take it back. You’re a murderer and worse and I’m ‘on your list’; I don’t need to find out who killed John, I need to stop you.” Her hand steadied, and she took a breath and aimed.

Sherlock just watched her.

 _::That is ENOUGH.::_ John’s tight grip on his temper snapped.

And all hell broke loose.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Apologies for the hiatus, and for any confusion with my new username. Again, I'm still working without a beta reader, so I really rely on feedback from you guys if I make a mistake of if part of this doesn't make sense. DO tell me!

Donovan pulled the trigger and everything happened at once.

Anything capable of shattering in the flat exploded. Windows, dishes, the telly; the room was awash in a rain of broken crockery and glass. The floor shook, books and experiments tumbled from the shelves and tables, furniture danced across the floor and tipped on their sides. Grey smoke twisted in a huge, shrieking gale that ripped up everything that wasn’t nailed down, smashing equipment, folders, everything against the walls and knocking Sherlock and Donovan off their feet. Donovan got the worst of it; the gun was smashed from her hands by something Sherlock couldn’t see, and she was thrown bodily against the door. 

John stood at the center of it, looking exactly as he had in life, if Sherlock ignored the pale, bloodless skin and the pumping red wound at his heart. His eyes were black, furious, and Sherlock scrambled back on seeing him. Donovan stared, horrified, back up against the door. John staggered towards her, flinging down the bullet he’d ripped from the air before it reached Sherlock.

_::GET OUT.::_ John screamed, bending slightly forwards with the force of it. His arms were half raised, muscles tense as if he was trying to hold himself in check. It clearly wasn’t working. _::GET. OUT.::_ Sally nodded frantically, tears on her face. Sherlock had never seen her cry. She scrabbled at the door and darted through it, slamming it shut behind her; Sherlock couldn’t hear her fleeing down the stairs over the wind but it was a safe assumption she took several at a time. 

Donovan completely dropped from his attention as John turned to glare at him. This wasn’t John; regardless of what it had been, regardless that Sherlock hadn’t been imagining the voices and visions, this specter was not John. John’s face had never twisted in such mindless rage, even while drugged at Baskerville, he had never—John had been the calm in Sherlock’s storm of an existence. He was solid, dependable, everything Sherlock hadn’t been and needed so desperately but never noticed until he’d left. 

This John was none of that. It advanced, dripping a bloody trail behind it, but Sherlock was frozen, staring. He was probably crying again. Even with a murderous ghoul advancing upon him, he was still unable to control his _feelings_. Hopefully it would strangle him with its bare, incorporeal hands and put him out of his blubbering, useless misery.

_::And YOU,::_ it hissed, sinking to its knees, looming over him, red dripping to land on Sherlock’s trousers, shirt, jacket. _::You just STOOD there. You didn’t even MOVE.::_ The anger morphed into misery, anguish, and Sherlock felt the treacherous pain behind his eyelids. If he hadn’t been crying before, he was now. 

John’s ghost reached for him, put its hand to his cheek and looked so tortured, so agonized, that Sherlock didn’t flinch at the biting cold seeping through him at the touch. When it spoke again, its voice was quiet, breathy, hurt.

_::Why?::_

Sherlock swallowed. 

“Because she was right.” 

And just like that, it was over. Everything fell abruptly to the floor, papers fluttering from the air. The sound of the street came through the shattered windows in the sudden silence, traffic and shouting, sirens. John burst apart into grey wisps, and Sherlock was left alone in the flat.

*** 

There was no hiding his presence in 221B at that point—Mrs. Hudson had come home to a small battalion of men in black suits flitting busily around and inside the damaged building, sweeping away shards lamp and torn papers. Sherlock assumed that Donovan had contacted Mycroft, or a neighbor had noticed the shrieking explosion that was a Watson tantrum and called the police, thus notifying Mycroft. Either way, Mycroft had been alerted. Thankfully, he was still staying away, although Sherlock would have enjoyed watching him attempt to remain expressionless upon seeing Sherlock alive and sitting at the center of what seemed to be the remains of a small tornado. Another time, perhaps; Sherlock was having no success at all containing the useless wells of sentiment that constantly turned him into a soggy mess, and it was surprising John had managed this long after everything he’d been through (all Sherlock’s fault; for once Donovan’s conclusions were more than so much noise pollution). John would probably explode again, and Mycroft would get a second chance then. If Sherlock was really very lucky, John could have a fit at Mycroft. Maybe he would cry. The thought cheered Sherlock enormously.

Mrs. Hudson was surprisingly resilient upon coming back to find that Sherlock had been living above her for the past two weeks and apparently mucking about with explosives (the explanation everyone seemed to be going with, as they were unlikely to believe the ghost of his dead flatmate had chucked a wobbly) and had only fainted once. Sherlock had been concerned that medical assistance would be needed, but his quick catch had spared her even a bruise. She had, as John predicted, nearly come at him with a poker when she had recovered, but her fury was short lived. She’d fallen on him as he sat awkwardly in a battered kitchen chair, tucking his head against her shoulder while she sobbed “My boy,” and “you’re back,” and “thought I had lost you both” into his hair. He had (humiliatingly) begun crying _again_ , as if he hadn’t already spent the better part of the day whinging, face covered in salt. He should have run out by now. She’d finally pulled back briskly, straightened her cardigan, and decided a nice cup of tea would do them both wonders. She’d bustled him out the door and into her sitting room, where he sat at a loss for what to do.

John still hadn’t shown up yet, but Sherlock wasn’t worried. John seemed to disappear after emotional upheaval the same way he’d stalked off to overnight with Sarah when he’d been alive. Sherlock wasn’t certain he was ready to see him again anyway; he was feeling the same overwrought pathos mixed with utter mortification he had tried to leave behind in adolescence. The situation left several points to consider.

Positive:

  * He was (probably) not going to die of starvation from eating the tea and toast (although they could still be some ethereal substance that he was unable to digest).
  * He wasn’t insane (at least not the way he had ben concerned about), and he (probably) wouldn’t be going on a paranoid killing rampage throughout London.
  * John was home home _home_ , he was there and real and almost touchable sometimes.



Negative:

  * Sherlock no longer had the excuse of paranoid killing sprees to rid the world of Anderson.
  * John was still dead and seemed slightly emotionally unbalanced; popular literature implied that he could start killing people soon. Perhaps he could be channeled towards Anderson? Should this point then be moved to the good column?
  * Popular literature also suggested that ghosts were unhappy and meant to move on—thus his presence might be good for Sherlock but could be bad for John. 
  * If John was real, then everything Sherlock had said when he thought he was talking to himself had actually been said to the real John Watson.
  * Therefore Sherlock had actually told the real John Watson that he loved him. This last point should probably have its own “extensively humiliating” category.



The last points in both columns had Sherlock’s stomach twisting back and forth between euphoria and abject horror. He sat, dithering between the two, while Mrs. Hudson pottered around her flat, chattering breathlessly and much more delighted to have him blow up her building than she ever had been in the past. Sherlock was slightly disappointed that it hadn’t actually been the case and John had used up her goodwill with his own mess.

Eventually the men in suits had left, the windows had been boarded up, and Sherlock felt vaguely ill with the fight Mrs. Hudson’s endless tea and biscuits had waged with the writhing emotions in his gut. She prodded him off to bed and for once he went, curling up and closing his eyes resolutely in the hopes that when he awoke, John would be back.

***

Upside: John was, indeed, back when Sherlock woke up. Sherlock cracked sticky eyelids (crying in his sleep was undignified; from this point on he would ignore his own blubbering and hope that made it go away) and there John was, sitting awkwardly at the foot of the bed. Sherlock felt his weight pulling down the mattress, the subtle shift of the covers as John fidgeted. John appeared more corporeal than he had at any point before this moment.

Downside: John no longer looked like anything but a corpse. A very, very worried and guilty looking corpse, but the pale skin, darkened eyes, and angry red wound at his heart were… upsetting. In anyone else, Sherlock likely wouldn’t have turned a hair, but watching _John_ pump blood from his chest and slowly soak the bedclothes around him made something rise in his gorge. Sherlock swallowed and sat up.

“Sorry.” John’s voice was solid, real, outside of Sherlock’s head. It was accompanied by a wet flutter in his throat and a line of red trickled from his lips. Sherlock winced, and John looked away.

“I can’t… I have trouble thinking.” John whispered, coughing. Blood stained his hands, but faded when he looked away from them. 

“Hardly new information, John,” Sherlock managed. John glanced back to him, a startled laugh making its way past his teeth, and the corner of his mouth turned up. The blood trickle was gone, and the slick pool around him lessened, slightly.

“I mean it. I can’t… remember. Much.” John reached forward, hesitant, and touched the very ends of Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock leaned into it, and John’s smile moved up to his eyes. His touch was cold, like the dead, but not the burning frost it was earlier. “I don’t remember most of my life before you, or after. It’s hard to think about anything but what is happening now, this moment. But when I do…”

John pulled back and stared at his hands, now clasped tightly in his lap. The curtains twitched, flowed, and something slid across the bookcase behind Sherlock—a porcelain cup, from the sound of it, miraculously saved from the previous day’s carnage. 

“I can’t think about things that upset me.” The cup fell to the ground, and the shattering crash startled John. Sherlock, expecting it, didn’t blink. “I don’t mean to, but I hurt people. I barely noticed in the cemetery, everything was vague and hazy, but every so often things would rip apart and people would end up in the hospital.” The entire contents of the bookshelves were rattling now, and John took a deep breath, pushing a new gush of blood from his chest, before they settled. “I could have killed Sally. I wanted to. I could have hurt you.”

“You would never hurt me.” Sherlock was calm, confident. No doubt in his voice.

John smiled sadly. “I was so angry at you Sherlock. I AM angry; if I reach down just a bit, I can touch it.” Books flew from the shelves, smacking the walls hard enough that plaster chips sprayed and dust billowed into the room. Sherlock didn’t move. 

“You need to put me back. I’m going to hurt you.”

Sherlock smiled. “Hardly as worrisome as you seem to find it, John. As I would be dead twice now without you, any injury you inflict could do nothing to tip your scale, as it were.” John’s eyes were black, anguished, and the wind from the previous day swelled and stilled in fits and starts. “Besides, I stood at the center of your fury yesterday and I haven’t a scratch. Even Sally escaped with no more than a few bruises. I’m not concerned, and even if I should be, I can’t be bothered to care. If you’re around, and it seems you are to a degree even when I am not present, I want you with me.”

Sherlock stood, giving himself a shake, and headed to the shower. The best way to end an argument with John was to distract him or flee the scene before he had a chance to work up a decent rebuttal. Perhaps Sherlock would take him to the yard later and see if Sally was still speaking to him. Sherlock touched his eyes. Hopefully he wouldn’t look _too_ much like he’d spent the night crying.

***

Was it truly too much to hope that his new, crippling sentimentality would not be readily apparent to even the most feeble-minded of schoolchildren?

The yard had clearly been updated on his miraculous return to the land of the living, as no one started screaming or looked overly shocked when he walked in. About half of the force was new since he’d been in last, but Sherlock hadn’t even been lucky enough to be rid of Anderson. The useless bag of complaints hadn’t known when Sherlock would be by, but he’d been expecting it, and had a pitifully planned and rehearsed “witticism” ready and on his lips. Sherlock beat him to it.

“I see Sally’s rising star hasn’t illuminated your career in the least. Unsurprising, but I would hope you would have at least moved up a bit while I’ve been gone. Tell me, do you even notice life passing you by, or are you blissfully unaware?”

Anderson had spun, snarling, but suddenly paled. His retort died in his throat, and Sherlock had seen actual _pity_ in his face before he’d turned away in a huff.

“I have work to do, Sherlock, go bother Sally and her rising star if you want something.”

It was a lucky thing Moriarty was thoroughly, undeniably, gruesomely dead, as Sherlock had apparently lost all ability to avoid broadcasting his own weaknesses to the general public. He glowered, turned on his heel, and strode towards Lestrade’s old office. His fingers curled in his pocket around the resin cube he carried, but John didn’t seem to be in attendance. Reasonable, as the bloody apparition of his dead partner would not go over well in this setting, but Sherlock felt off-balance, bereft. He kicked himself mentally, shook his head, and turned back to needle Anderson into the good, screaming froth like he’d expected earlier. That would put him to rights.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who has commented! I really appreciate the feedback.

Sally Donovan would never have taken the promotion if she had realized how much her life would be eaten up by paperwork. She valued procedure, valued records and everything that went with them, but she almost understood Lestrade’s choosing to involve Sherlock and skip everything that turned out to be unnecessary. 

She sighed, reshuffled some things, looked up from her paperwork, caught sight of John bleeding all over her office, and barely stifled a scream as she leapt back and drew her gun. She was proud her hands didn’t shake on the grip, but really, a fat lot of good it would do her when John was clearly already dead.

John smiled as the same thought seemed to cross his mind. It looked wrong on his face now, too pale and stiff to hold it. 

“I’m not going to hurt you. I think.” He said softly. His voice was different this time, outside of her head, and she could see every wet, reddened fold of clothing and the individual hairs on his head. She stood her ground, mostly because there was nowhere to go. She couldn’t exactly leap out the window. 

“That’s not as reassuring as you seem to think it should be.” Sally’s voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. “Haunting me instead, then? The F…” She swallowed the word as John’s eyes turned stormy. “…Sherlock not interesting enough anymore?”

John smiled and looked over his shoulder. There was bare wall behind him, but Sally had no idea what he was seeing. “No, he’s back with Anderson. They’re having one of their spats; it’s cheering Sherlock up like you wouldn’t believe. I thought I’d leave them to it and apologize for earlier.” He turned back and looked at her gun. “I’d put that away—I’m not entirely sure what will happen if you shoot me, but it won’t hurt me and might hurt someone else. Either way it won’t help you.”

“You want to apologize.” Sally slowly brought the gun down, but didn’t touch the safety. “You’re sorry you stopped me from killing your boyfriend.”

The desk rattled, and Sally immediately regretted it. Her back went to the window and her gun came back up; John visibly tried to relax himself and remain calm. The furniture stopped dancing. 

“No. I’m sorry I nearly killed you doing it.” He stared at the floor now, as if looking at her might set him off. Sally reconsidered leaping from the window—she was only three stories up. “You do things I want to hate you for, but you always have good reasons behind them.” He paused, looking unsure. Sally bristled.

“Goodness! Glad I have your approval, I was worried. Want to look over my paperwork a bit, then? Make sure I have lots of good reasons for it all?” She sneered. “It’s almost as good as knowing you want to hate me and can’t. I can help you out on that one mate, I’ll go round and toss your pet detective’s flat a few times, see if I can get a drug charge to stick, you might not be as patronizing later on, yeah?” She shoved her gun away, anger and frustration pushing aside the fear.

John smiled. Weirdly, it looked like getting her back up calmed him down. Well good on him, the little shit. “I’m such a good, sweet little D.I., I’ll leave all the crime solving to the mass murderer verbally abusing my employees outside, then. That sounds like a great idea, we’ll save on the prison space when they all turn up dead won’t we?” 

“You don’t need my approval and you’re good at your job, I know. I also know you’re working for Mycroft because you feel guilty about my death.”

Sally glanced at her watch. “We’re not talking about this.”

John leaned forward and looked her dead on. It was likely a stunt he’d pulled when he was a captain, and probably worked well at the time; it was half intimidation and half steady reliability. When he was chalk white and bleeding a sticky red puddle on her desk from an oozing hole in his chest, though, it was pretty much all intimidation. Sally didn’t let herself flinch. 

“I’m…85% certain I didn’t kill myself,” John said slowly, “which I realize isn’t very helpful. But if I did… it wasn’t anything you said.”

Sally dropped into her chair with a huff of frustration. “You’re right, that wasn’t helpful at all. If you don’t remember something as basic as your own death, you’ll forgive me if I can’t really take any assurance you give me seriously.” 

John frowned. “I’m not the kind of emotional, insecure wreck that would let a few words push me into suicide, Sally.”

“I said more than a few words.” She threw her hands up. “But either way, I don’t give a toss what you think about my work, and I don’t need your reassurances. If I cock up, it’s on me and your feelings on it don’t matter. Your approval doesn’t matter, and neither does your forgiveness. I cocked up when I let myself bitch you out a year ago, and I cocked up at your flat the other day, but whether you listen to me now or not I’ve done what I need to sleep at night: whatever your shit is, right, that’s got you hanging around with that psychopath again, you get it figured out and get the fuck away from him.”

John’s smile dropped off his face, and Sally could feel her own control slipping. She shut her mouth, glared, and took a deep breath. 

“He can’t get you killed anymore but he can rip the hell out of what’s left of you. Don’t let him.” She snatched a paper off her in pile, scattering several below it, and slammed if violently down before her, the filled it out with rather more force than necessary. 

John sat in the opposite chair for a few moments, looking at her, before gently drifting apart and seeping under the door.

Sally sat back in her chair, trying to breath slowly, before turning to concentrate on her report to Mycroft. She managed roughly three paragraphs before a furious, red-faced Anderson shoved Sherlock bodily into the room, which had Sally strongly reconsidering her decision against leaping out of the window. 

“Ah, Sally, pleased to see you have moved up in the world of relationships as well. Anderson must be a chore to endure even for base, simple intelligences such as yours. He doesn’t seem pleased about your new conquest of the latest young secretary, though, you’d be surprised how loudly he yelled at me; I’m afraid most of the office overheard and thus it’s likely the entire office now knows.”

Sally dropped her forehead to the desk.

“I have had just about enough of this creepy, interfering psychopath—“

“-- _Socio_ path—“

“—and I’m about to end up making my own crime scene, you deal with him, you’re the one who—“

“Don’t finish that sentence if you want to keep your job, Anderson,” Sally snapped. Sherlock looked at her and grinned, and Sally glared back. “Sit down before you fall down, Freak, you look like you’ve drowned and then cried all night about it.”

The grin disappeared. “Christ, has _everyone_ \--“

“And shut up before I shut you up. Anderson, get back to work. You’ve been loitering around the entrance again and I know you have work to do, I’m the one that gave it to you.” Anderson’s stare went glacial and Sally met it, not budging. 

“You didn’t mind it when I was loitering with y—“

“You don’t really want this job, is that it?”

“You can’t fire me because you’re a sl—“

Sally pointed towards the door. “I can fire you for consistent and extensive disrespect, get back to work before I send you out on your ass.”

Anderson slammed the door behind him. Sally took a breath turned to Sherlock, who was back to grinning again. The smarmy bastard.

“Where’s the skull?”

“Skull?” Sherlock leaned back in the same chair that just a quarter hour past had been drenched in blood. It was clean now. Sally considered telling him, then discarded the thought. It would just make him worse to deal with and make her slightly guilty afterwards, going by the puffy eyes and fragile way he held himself. Christ, sympathy for a gleeful murderer, she’s sunk so low.

“Yes, the skull, John just came in for a chat so where are you hiding it? Christ, trust you to wander around with body parts of your dead flatmate like a security blanket, though looking at your face you clearly need it.” She flung her pen down, paperwork forgotten. “You really need to put him back and leave him alone.”

Sherlock smiled; broken, bitter, it wasn’t his smug, mocking smile or the fake, cheerful smile she was used to. Her mouth twisted. “You’re not here to apologize or forgive or any bullshit like that, are you?”

Sherlock snorted. “I cannot think of a single thing I am sorry for having done to you, Sally, and forgiveness really isn’t my area. You wouldn’t accept it from me either way.”

She shifted uncomfortably, stilled her hands, and tried to put on as professional a face as possible. He was in her office and likely here to do what she wanted him to, and she was surrounded by trained police. She could afford to be reasonable.

“Yes, remind yourself where you are and how you’re safe.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I’m sure the extra five minutes it would take me to kill you here rather than the privacy of my flat will make such a difference to you. Deranged killers are much less scary in the daylight, aren’t they? If I wanted you dead, Donovan, you would be dead already. Comfort yourself with real data, not instinctual rubbish.”

“On the plus side, if you killed me here we’d finally be able to lock you up where you couldn’t hurt anyone else.”

The grin again. Sally swallowed, hard, and regretted it immediately. “You’re very sure of that, Donovan. Tell me, what kind of an idiot takes an office without two exits? You are less stupid than many, and Lestrade was much cleverer than you are. You’re not really about to leap out the window, however many times you glance at it; there must be an over-the-sill fire ladder tucked away in here somewhere. Likely the closet, you really must learn to control your face if you expect to get anywhere in life, really—“

“What, like you control yours?” She shot back angrily, losing her hold on her temper. “I thought it would be better to see you with some sort of human emotion but this damaged widow look you’ve been sporting—“ Sally caught herself, grit her teeth, laid her hands flat and glared a hole in Mycroft’s papers. “You’re going to help me with John’s case, then.”

“Obvious. You know of my attachment to him just as you know murderers are very jealous of people they form such attachments to. You know what I did to Moriarty at the end. Whether you believe I’m human or not, care about him or not—“ This time it was Sherlock’s turn to bite his tongue. He was shaking, babbling, and it turned out that seeing Sherlock at his weakest was even scarier than in his element. Any number of predators were only more dangerous when wounded, and Sherlock seemed to be no different. “Either way, you could be sure I would investigate.”

“Didn’t know if you’d work with me on it.”

The grin returned full force. “I can always take things into my own hands if the occasion calls for it. You already know how easily I can avoid unwanted attention.” 

“Because of the years of training we’ve given you on how we work,” Sally said bitterly, crossing her arms.

“Because you’re a pack of idiots,” Sherlock replied breezily, waving her concerns away. “If you’re blaming yourself or Lestrade for my murders, assuming I committed any—“

“—of course you committed murder—“

“—then rest easy in the knowledge that your procedures are hardly secret from the more intelligent of the criminal class, and easily obtained were I refused access. You _do_ realize police sometimes break the law themselves?”

Sally looked away. Sherlock stopped dead, his face suffused with delight.

Shit.

“Oh,” Sherlock let the surprised syllable drop breathily, and Sally suppressed the shiver that crept coldly up her spine, “you lovely thing, you’ve done more than falsify paperwork for my brother.”

“Don’t.” The first time he’d been anything other than scathingly insulting and it was because he’d twigged to… Trust Sherlock, really, for that much.

“I’ll find out. I knew there was something more than the small-minded hatred Anderson pointed at me. You’ve spent this whole time drawing lines between us. Are they disappearing, Sally? You’ve started doing something else. The first time was easy to justify, but since I’ve left you’ve needed to add to it. You’re angrier, but it’s more brittle, desperate. You’re seeing parallels. Am I more understandable than you expected, Sally? Are you thinking better of me, or worse of yourself?” Sally steeled herself and glared silently. “Ah, worse of yourself, then. Not poorly enough to stop. It’s not money, you’d dress better, that sort of thing matters to you. Not drugs, you don’t show the signs, and—“

“Right, if you don’t drop it I’ll shoot you in the face and damn the consequences. Where’s John, Sherlock? I’m surprised he hasn’t stabbed me through the eyes with my pens yet.” Sally pushed said pens a bit further from herself, knowing it wouldn’t help her if it came to it but unable to stop herself. Sherlock’s head tilted, interest caught. Thank god.

“Yes, you said he’d been by to speak to you. He apologized for reacting to your poor behavior.”

“He did.”

“And you threw it back in his teeth.”

“I don’t need his approval or regret.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yet you are working with a man you believe to be as terrible as any killer you’ve locked away out of the guilt of his death.”

Sally shook her head, not wanting to talk about it but not willing to return to their previous discussion. “I’m making up for dicking the investigation he deserves, not making up for hurting his feelings. I don’t care how he feels about what I do—“

“—you care about how you feel about it.” Sherlock brought his hands to his lips, his feet up on the chair. “You don’t care about his reaction to your actions, you care about following your own rules you’ve set for yourself. Oh Sally,” he continued, half a smile dancing on his lips, “you _are_ having trouble keeping us separate, aren’t you?”

“Not in the least,” she lied. If she kept her hands on the chair he wouldn’t see them shaking.

“You should,” he breathed, leaning forward. “I’ve never set my own rules, Sally, I’ve had them imposed on me. You definitely don’t want John to leave.”

“Don’t worry,” she replied with false cheer, “I’ll take care of you as soon as he does.”


End file.
